


Anything You Want

by Tentaculiferous



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Enemies, Gen, Imprisonment, Innuendo, Lust, M/M, Pampering, Prisoner of War, Seduction to the Dark Side, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaculiferous/pseuds/Tentaculiferous
Summary: Megatron offers Ratchet many incentives to come to the dark side.





	Anything You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvercloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvercloud/gifts).



Almost every Autobot had anticipated what it would be like to be taken prisoner by the Decepticons. It was a real, ever-present threat that hung over all of their helms. When one was sneaking through the darkened halls of an enemy base, or clinging to a console as their ship rattled and bounced around them under enemy fire, it was hard not to think of the consequences.

The pangs of a long, lingering starvation as one was left in a cell to rust. The burn of a cortical psychic patch ripping through one's processor. The sting of the electro-whip as it lashed electricity across one's backplates. Pain. Suffering. Death. 

Gourmet energon treats, just like back on Iacon? Ratchet arched an optic ridge as he stared at the fine silver platter sitting on the end table next to the softly cushioned berth in his room. He had been led here after even the staunchly workaholic Shockwave had announced it was time to retire for recharge, as "Productivity rates have declined to levels where fatigue-induced errors outweigh the acceptable margins." 

Now Ratchet had been left alone in his sumptuous guest room, free to pick at the rust sticks and oil swirl cookies—he hadn't seen any of those since before the War for Cybertron. 

Megatron was always full of surprises—although this should be no surprise to him, given the carefully crafted buttering up Megatron had worked on him when he gave him a tour of the facilities. He was sure they were both aware that the exquisitely crafted, delicate scientific equipment aboard the Decepticon warship was really the hook that had reeled Ratchet in—after decades of working with castoff junk and then humankind's primitive tech, it had filled Ratchet with a fierce wanting that was almost physical. 

He had never been a mech for luxuries. This was just the icing on the chrome-alloy cake. Ratchet was scoffing at the room's wall-to-wall vid screen (did Megatron expect him to kick back and watch old Cybertronian soaps while he was imprisoned on the warship?) when the door whooshed behind him, sending the old mech's sparkrate into overdrive as he spun around, hands transforming into blades.

"At ease, Ratchet." Megatron said, his voice mirthful. "I have not come to harm you in any way—we are allies now, after all." 

"Allies? Hardly." Ratchet said, but he retracted his blades back into hands. 

"I trust your quarters are satisfactory?" Megatron inquired, striding into the room. 

"You know they are." Ratchet said, his optics narrowing. 

"Ahhh, but you haven't even seen the best part." Megatron said. 

Deceptively slim silver fingers caressed a glowing button on the wall, making it glow purple as he pushed it in. The smooth, silken sound of brushed metal sliding against brushed metal rang in Ratchet's audios, as part of the floor slid away, to reveal...

A sunken pool of gently bubbling, steaming oil. 

"Are those jets?" Ratchet asked incredulously. 

"I told you Doctor—the finest in Decepticon engineering is being made available to you—all of it."

Ratchet hadn't seen an oil spa since the start of the war. He stared at it. It was like a relic out of the past. Like walking by Maccadams, or seeing two Senator's debating on C-SPAN (Cybertronian Satellite Public Affairs Network). 

"Care to join me in an oil bath?" Megatron's smooth and powerful voice seemed to sweep down Ratchet's spinal strut as he watched the other mech gently flick those graceful silver talons across the oil's surface, sending little droplets flying, dripping and beading down the metal of his hands. 

"I would like to recharge." Ratchet said. "So that I can return to _your_ project as soon as possible." 

"There's nothing like a soothing dip in warm, hot oil to relax tired, aching joints before recharge." Megatron said. 

What was Megatron playing at? The last place Ratchet wanted to be was anywhere near the wicked Decepticon leader, let alone in an oil pool with him, which, while large, would still have their pedes touching unless they curled their legs away from each other. Ratchet could think of nothing less restful before recharge than being in close quarters, in a slippery, confined space with Megatron. 

Still, it had been eons, literally eons, since he'd had an oil bath. And he could use it now more than ever. His joints were old and had been soldered and repaired with less than ideal materials, in less than ideal surroundings, too many times. His left knee joint and his backstruts always ached fiercely by the end of the solar cycle, one reason he had a reputation as a workhorse medic and scientist—the pain kept him up late, he needed real exhaustion to be able to slide into recharge. 

When would he have an opportunity like this again? If every Decepticon dropped dead tomorrow and they used the Omega Lock to restore Cybertron, it would still be eons once more before they'd have resources to waste on something as frivolous (if enjoyable) as oil spas. It wasn't like getting in the oil bath would help the Decepticon Cause in any way. _No_ amount of luxuries could sway him to their side. So why not enjoy them anyway? 

With that thought, and a disdainful "Hmph" Ratchet slowly slid one red and white pede into the oil, the thick hot liquid oozing into the crevices of his foot and caressing bits of metal and cabling that hadn't been properly touched in millennia. The sensation was so good and overwhelming, beyond what he'd been expecting (he'd forgotten just how delicious properly heated oil felt on his tire treads). He couldn't help a low moan from escaping his vocalizer as he moved his foot through the water. Primus, how would it feel once he was fully submerged in it?!

Megatron's baleful red stare watched the medic's blissed out face, his optics eating up the way Ratchet's mouth flared open, to show normal, dull Autobot denta chewing at his lipplates as he bit back another moan. Megatron congratulations himself on a very wise decision in giving the Autobot medic the diplomatic suite with the oil bath. It had been very worthwhile already just for the visual and audio payoff in themselves (that moan!), and that wasn't even getting into the potential future benefits if everything went according to Megatron's plan. 

Megatron let the Autobot fully submerge himself (mentally cataloging every one of those delicious expressions) before he approached the bath. He was far more used to the feel of hot oil seeping in between his plates, since he made sure to indulge in an oil soak at least once a week, but it still felt good as he slid into the hot oil. 

His optics shuttered closed as he reclined against the sides of the pool. A strong sensation of being watched made him crack one optic open, revealing the medic staring at him. 

"How are you liking the oil? Is the temperature satisfactory?" Megatron purred, his voice full of false concern (he knew the temperature was just right—though if the medic wanted it cooler or hotter he would certainly indulge him.) 

"It is satisfactory." Ratchet said begrudgingly. 

"I am glad to see you enjoy it. It is no more than you deserve...working tirelessly to contribute to science, to patch up those foolish comrades of yours...It saddens me to you go underappreciated, so unrewarded for your ceaseless toil..."

Ratchet snorted. "I bet." 

"Your skepticism wounds me." Megatron said, his amused voice belying his words. "But you can see the evidence before your own eyes. I spare no expense on the technology and other...rewards, that the Decepticon science and medical division desires. I put no limit on the scope of their vision, as you can see with Project Predacon. I would never expect a brilliant scientist like yourself to work with the fleshbags' pathetic excuse for technology...it would be an insult."

Ratchet wasn't stupid enough to fall for such obvious flattery, though it was nice to be called "brilliant" once in a while...

"I thought I was being invited to an oil bath, not to a Decepticon recruitment speech." 

"Is it any wonder that I want you?" Megatron asked. 

Ratchet arched a brow at that wording. 

"For the Decepticon Army." Megatron said slyly. "You questioned earlier if I would not just terminate you once work on the Synthetic Energon is complete...but were you to don our badge, there would be no question of your survival."

Megatron leaned forward, his optics wide and seemingly earnest. Ratchet knew better. 

"I am sure you are wise enough to know that the War, good Doctor, will not end with the restoration of Cybertron, or even the complete annihilation of the Autobots. There are other worlds out there for us to lift out of the darkness—other civilizations to uplift."

Ratchet sputtered in indignation. "You are so full of scrap, I can't believe you'd even try to sell that line on me! Do you think I'm a newly onlined protoform? From the very beginning you have spurned the very ideals you spouted! As if I'd ever believe you'd turn over a new leaf!" he fumed. 

Megatron was unruffled by the medic's outburst. "Believe it or not, Doctor, it will be what it will be.   
The end of this War looms ever closer, and the Decepticons will be the victors. What we choose to do with the power we have gained is up to us...and you can choose to put up a futile resistance, fighting as you go down the last Autobot standing, with no ability to change what we do afterward, no influence on the future...or you could don our emblem, take your rank as a highly-respected scientist and doctor, and use your not-insignificant power as an officer to change that future...to bring us closer to those much-tarnished ideals." he paused for effect.

"My spark is not made out of titanium." Megatron said. "It is not hard, unchangeable...it is energy, like yours, and flickers and changes. Just like the Decepticon Army. What we are is not set in stone. You could help us return to our original ideals, uplift the oppressed and become a beacon of light in the universe, or you can go down into darkness and leave the universe at our mercy. The choice is yours, doctor. Think on it." 

With that, Megatron stood up, rivulets of oil running down his gleaming silver plating, and left an enraged Ratchet to stew in the oil bath. They both had plenty to reflect on.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally headed in a very NSFW direction. Then it occurred to me "that would be at best dubcon, possibly noncon, considering Ratchet is a prisoner..." and I didn't want to gift that to someone unless I knew they were ok with reading that. 
> 
> So you can consider this scene a prequel to that sort of thing if you like it, or just as a benign recruitment attempt if that's more your thing :)


End file.
